


my kingdom come undone

by atetheredmind



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of not really), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cheating, F/M, Love Triangles, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte, Pining, Ygritte Lives (ASoIaF), mentions of infertility (but we all know that Targaryen land is fertile lbr), of course s8 does not apply here, s7 reimagining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atetheredmind/pseuds/atetheredmind
Summary: At Queen Daenerys Targaryens' summons, the King in the North travels south to Dragonstone to ask for her help in fighting the Others. During negotiations, Jon Snow realizes the Dragon Queen is not quite what he expected. Something else he didn't expect? To fall in love with her. The only problem is: his heart already belongs to another. (Canon AU: Ygritte lives)
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 164
Kudos: 1054





	my kingdom come undone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Jonerys Week 2020, Day 3: State Visit. Thank you to aliciutza for beta'ing this in record time and cheerleading me to finish this fic in literally a week and a half. Whew. Not only that, she surprised me with an incredible set of mini-moodboards to mark each section of this fic; they're incredible, and she is the loml. I hope that you enjoy them as much as I do and that they enhance your reading pleasure as you read this fic!
> 
> I've been kicking this idea around for a while, where Ygritte survives the battle at Castle Black, and she and Jon are still together when he goes to meet with Daenerys. Yes, I like hurting myself. I wasn't really keen on revisiting show canon tbh, but Jonerys Week seemed like an ideal time to explore this premise, and I found I enjoyed returning to this universe (I mean, prior to when it went to shit in s8 of course; we definitely don't acknowledge that mess in this story).
> 
> Yes, there is cheating. There is also sex involving Jon and Ygritte at the beginning of the story. Also also, while I really just wanted to write a smutty angsty cheating fic, it's impossible to deal with the s7 plot without addressing all the war and politics, so I ended up having to rewrite all that nonsense. I fudged the timeline a bit as to when Jon arrives in Dragonstone; the Iron Fleet/Dornish army have not attacked or been attacked yet, for example, and some characters just never make an appearance. I basically skipped over the actual battle for the throne because ain't nobody got time for that. (And clearly neither did D&D, just look at season 8, yeesh.) Still, this fic got obnoxiously long, and I'm sorry about that. Hope you enjoy anyway!

**i.**

Jon was observing the archery lessons taking place in the inner ward with Ser Davos and his sister Sansa at his side when Maester Wolkan approached them on the covered bridge.

“A raven came for you, Your Grace.”

Jon took it, and with a bow the maester left them. Rolling the scroll between his fingers, Jon blinked in astonishment when he spotted the once-obsolete sigil stamped into the red wax.

At his expression, Sansa grew curious. “Who is it from?”

He didn’t answer her right away and instead broke the seal to unravel the scroll, making her huff impatiently as she waited for him to first read the missive to himself.

“It’s from Tyrion Lannister,” Jon finally said. At the mention of her erstwhile husband, he glanced at Sansa to gauge her reaction, but she looked just as perplexed as his adviser. “On behalf of Queen Daenerys Targaryen.”

“ _Targaryen_?” Sansa repeated, incredulous. “But...I thought they were all dead.”

“Apparently not,” Jon murmured. When he’d been Lord Commander, there had been idle chatter at Castle Black, about an exiled Targaryen princess who had hatched three dragons in the east, but they’d been dismissed as simple fantasy. According to this letter, however, there’d been some truth to the stories, after all.

“What does she want?” Sansa’s voice had chilled considerably.

“It’s an invitation.” He passed the scroll to her and waited as she read it.

Immediately, she objected. “You can’t go.”

“And why not?” he asked, irritated. He loved his sister, truly, but she was determined to undermine him at every turn. She begrudged him his position as King in the North; she questioned every decision he made, so sure she knew better. He didn’t hold any doubts that she wished she had been chosen queen after they’d taken Winterfell back from the Boltons.

“It’s not safe,” she argued.

Ignoring the sibling squabble, Davos took the scroll from Sansa. “‘ _My queen commands the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach, an Ironborn fleet, legions of Unsullied, a Dothraki horde and three dragons_ ,’” he read out loud then looked at Jon. “That’s quite a lot of men.”

Jon nodded. “And, if Lord Tyrion is to be believed, three dragons.” He knew he and his adviser were of the same mind: With Daenerys Targaryen’s forces, they might just stand a chance against the Others and the immense army of wights they had amassed.

“How do we know we can trust this woman? After what her family did to ours?” Sansa asked indignantly.

“I don’t know that,” Jon replied. “But she already has half the kingdom on her side. To defeat the dead, we’re going to need to work together.”

“You’re our king,” Sansa reminded him. “She’ll expect you to support her claim over Cersei’s. She’ll expect you to bend the knee to her.”

“Aye, she probably will, but that doesn’t mean I’ll do it,” he said crossly. “Have a little more faith in me, sister.”

Sullenly, she jutted her lip out. “We just got Winterfell back, Jon. You can’t abandon your people now.”

“I’m not abandoning them; I’m leaving them with you. Until I return, Winterfell is yours,” he said simply, knowing that would appease her. As expected, she clamped her mouth shut and ceased her appeals to him. “Ser Davos and a few of my men will travel with me to Dragonstone, but the rest will remain here along with the free folk and the Knights of the Vale. You won’t be unprotected.”

Grudgingly, she nodded her acceptance then glanced at the archers in the yard below, where some of the free folk had begun to train Northern women and children on the bow at Jon’s behest. “And what of her?” she asked pointedly, her eyebrow arching in challenge. “Will _she_ go with you as well?”

Jon didn’t take the bait, keeping his eyes on Sansa. “She will remain here with the free folk to continue training our forces for the war to come.” Sansa huffed but said no more.

He continued, “I will announce my decision to my men tonight. Then Ser Davos and I will prepare to leave on the morrow.”

With that, Jon took the scroll from Davos and brushed past them, heading for the rookery to answer Tyrion Lannister’s summons.

* * *

At his chamber doors, Jon hesitated. Already, he knew she awaited him inside. Most nights she came to him, and most nights he welcomed her. But tonight, he knew he was in for a fight, and after the contentious debate with the Northmen earlier over his decision to meet with the Targaryen queen, he didn’t think he had the energy or the patience for a continuation of that argument with her now.

With a weary sigh, he opened the door and stepped inside. A fire burned low in the hearth, casting a faint glow through his dark chambers. He spotted her in his bed, the furs and coverlets piled on top of her. Her red hair was bright even in the near darkness. _Kissed by fire_ , the free folk liked to say _._ He had always loved her hair; she wore it free and untamed, much like herself.

She didn’t speak, so neither did he. In the quiet, he moved through his room, unhooking the cloak at his neck and draping the heavy thing over the back of a chair. As he went about his nightly customs, stripping out of his leather and armor, he felt her eyes on him. The tension grew thick and unbearable.

Finally, mercifully, she punctured the silence. “So you’re leaving me, then.” It was an accusation.

With his back to her, Jon closed his eyes and sighed wearily. “I’m not leaving _you_ , Ygritte. We need the men,” he said, dipping his hands in a basin to splash water on his face.

“And I suppose I’m just meant to stay here and wait for you,” she said scornfully.

Everything was a fight with her. In that regard, she was worse than his sister; at least, Sansa’s objections didn’t extend to his bed chambers.

Wiping off his face with a drying cloth, Jon finally turned to her. She sat in the middle of his bed, her arms folded over her naked chest, the furs having slipped down to her lap. Since she’d joined him at Winterfell and taken to sleeping in his chambers, she’d ditched her burdensome attire of musty animal hide and heavy furs in favor of nothing at all.

“I’m not asking you to wait for me,” he told her, perhaps a bit too bluntly; she flinched as if slapped. Instantly remorseful, he sought to mollify her. “Ygritte, you’re a free woman. I need your help preparing my people for the war to come, but if you want to go, I won’t stop you. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I hope you’ll be here when I return, but it’s your choice.”

“You want me to stay because you need my help or because you want me?” she asked quietly.

It was a question he asked himself often. Ever since that Red Woman brought him back from the dead, Ygritte had been by his side, even riding into battle with him to reclaim Winterfell. She was one of the few free folk to survive the Battle of Castle Black after Mance Rayder had attacked, so she’d been forced to work alongside him once Jon had been named Lord Commander; otherwise, she’d wanted nothing to do with him, unable to forgive his deception. That was, until the mutiny by his own men that had claimed his life—his death and resurrection had changed more than just him; it had changed her heart once more.

“You’re not dying again unless it’s by my hand, Crow,” she’d sworn through her tears. From Ygritte, it was as romantic a declaration as he was ever like to receive.

“I need your help, _and_ I want you,” he finally told her. She looked away, her bottom lip protruding. It made him think of Arya, the sister he hadn’t seen in years. At the similarity, the hole her absence left inside him ached dully.

“Then let me go with you,” Ygritte demanded.

Flexing his scarred fist at his side, Jon crossed to his bed. “I can’t do that, Ygritte,” he said, trying to find a delicate way to explain to her the trappings of court. “I don’t know anything about this Queen Daenerys. Bringing you might be considered...an offense.”

Ygritte scoffed. “Because I’m a free woman? Or because she might realize you’re fucking me?”

It was his turn to wince, his face heating. With anger and—yes, with shame. _Kings shouldn’t bring their lovers to parley with other sovereigns_ , he wanted to tell her. “I am a king,” was all he said, his voice tight.

“ _Aye_ , and she’s a queen,” she said accusingly.

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. “Just what are you saying? Speak plainly.”

With a flippant shrug, Ygritte crawled out of the bed to stand before him, naked as her name day. She was not shy or self-conscious about it, not like he would be. “You’re a _king_ , going to meet with a _queen_. How much _plainer_ could I be?”

Exasperated, Jon shook his head. “It’s not like that. She wants to make an alliance with House Stark.”

“You know nothing,” she sneered. “What better alliance than a marriage? That’s what you southerners do, isn’t it? And a queen is certainly more fitting for a king than a _wildling_.”

“I’m a bastard,” he reminded her, his temper flaring. “I am no fit consort for a Targaryen queen. More than that, there is bad blood between our families, and no simple marriage alliance could ever resolve that.”

Her mouth puckered sourly. “Good,” she said after a moment, meeting his gaze head-on. Her hand came out to unlace his breeches, tugging and jerking roughly. Once she had them free, she slipped her hand inside his breeches and under his smallclothes, taking his cock in hand.

Jon gritted his teeth, angry with her for her predictability, and angry with himself for enjoying it. This was how all their fights were resolved, which in truth meant _nothing_ was resolved, and afterward he was always filled with resentment and confusion.

Ygritte moved closer until the pink tips of her breasts grazed his tunic, her hand stroking his hardening shaft with practiced ease. “You’re mine, Jon Snow. And I’m yours.” She lifted her mouth to his, her lips curling cruelly. “Don’t ever forget that.”

He kissed her roughly and took her on his bed, as he’d done many nights since being named King in the North. In the morning, he would leave, and despite their quarrel, he knew she would still be waiting for him when he returned.

* * *

**ii.**

As a boy, Jon had dreamed of dragons. He’d fancied himself a Targaryen warrior of old, riding on the back of dragons to conquer worlds and slay his enemies. But those were just dreams, the whimsical fantasies of a child. The dragons had all died long ago.

So it was a strange sight indeed, three fully grown dragons flying above him, their cries like no song he’d ever heard before. The queen’s letter had attested to their existence, of course; still, nothing could prepare Jon for the reality.

“I know the feeling,” Tyrion sympathized as Jon and Ser Davos gaped dumbly at the great winged beasts. After being welcomed ashore by the queen’s hand and her heavily armed men, they had stopped on the stone steps to gawk at the picturesque tableau that greeted them. Of the mythical creatures, one was black and red, another white and gold, and the last green and bronze; their wingspans stretched wider than the length of the ship Jon and his men had sailed on. Beneath the dragons, as if beckoning them along the long and winding path, loomed the seat of House Targaryen.

Tyrion continued up the steps, speaking to them over his shoulder. “Ever since I was a child, I’d longed to see a dragon but never thought I would. Truthfully, I nearly shit myself the first time I saw them.”

Jon finally found his voice. “It shouldn’t be possible,” he murmured, following after the queen’s hand. Davos and the Dothraki guards trailed behind them.

“It shouldn’t, and yet it is.” Tyrion shrugged. “Only one of many impossible things our queen has accomplished, I assure you.”

“ _Your_ queen,” Jon said, a sudden pique coloring his awe. “Last I checked, I am still King in the North, and I have not bent the knee to her.”

Tyrion simply smiled. “Of course. My mistake, Your Grace.”

* * *

The dragons were not his last surprise of the day; the Dragon Queen herself was a sight to behold. Despite the great distance between where he stood and where she sat on her throne, her beauty was undeniable. Her hair was the color of moonlight, her face exquisite even in hazy focus. She looked no older than him, which shouldn’t have been surprising, if she were truly the daughter of King Aerys, yet it unsettled him all the same, even if he could not say why, exactly.

So captivated was he, Jon nearly missed the introduction by the queen’s adviser, a willowy woman with brown skin and a clear, ringing voice. When Ser Davos bumbled his king’s own introduction, Jon was too preoccupied to correct him.

“Thank you for traveling all this way,” Queen Daenerys greeted him. Such a sweet voice, Jon mused. Girlish, even. “I hope the winds were kind on your voyage here.”

Jon blinked, then blinked again, shaking off his stupor. “Kind enough, thank you.” Truthfully, there had been some days where the seas had threatened to drag their ship and everyone on board to a watery grave.

“You must be tired. Should my men escort you and your companion to your chambers so you can rest?” the queen offered diplomatically. Jon looked to Davos, who bowed his head in deferment.

Facing the queen once more, Jon shook his head. “I thank you for your consideration, Your Grace, but Ser Davos is a seasoned captain, and I had plenty of rest on the ship. If it’s alright with you, I’d rather get to the point of why you invited me here.”

His directness seemed to take her aback. After a moment of consideration, she said, “My hand warned me you were a man of few words, and I see he was right.”

Jon glanced at Tyrion, who stood to the queen’s right at the bottom of the steps that ascended to her throne. The little man smiled. “In my defense, I meant it as a compliment,” he assured Jon.

“Yes, I imagine for someone who loves to hear himself talk as much as you do, that would be a compliment,” Queen Daenerys said wryly. Behind him, Davos made a muted sound of amusement. Tyrion only shrugged. Jon bit back a smile and cleared his throat.

“Aye, Lord Tyrion has the right of it,” he said. “My lord father taught me to speak plainly. It’s a virtue I’ve come to respect in others, as well.”

She nodded once. “Very well. Let us speak plainly then.” The queen stood from her throne and descended the steps to him, but she came no farther than the center of the throne room. Still, it was close enough to see his eyesight had not failed him; she was even more beautiful up close, her eyes as purple as a rare and precious gemstone. He managed to ignore this inconvenient truth as he focused on her words.

“I invited you here to ask for your help in deposing Cersei Lannister. You know as well as I do that as long as she is queen, the seven kingdoms will suffer.”

“Six,” Jon corrected. “The North does not kneel to her.”

In answer, Queen Daenerys stared at him, her gaze searching. It was slightly unnerving, as if she could see through his armor to the heart of him; he bade himself not to react.

After a moment, she smiled. “Nor, I imagine, does it kneel to me.” It was a question.

He took a slow breath. “My people named me their king. They have fought and bled for their freedom from the tyranny of the Iron Throne. We cannot, _will not_ go back to the way things were.”

She blinked, her silver brow furrowing slightly. “Then—forgive me, but why travel all this way? Surely not just to deliver this slap in person?”

He grimaced at her choice of words. “Your Grace, I mean you no disrespect.”

“Then you’ve come for the pleasure of my beautiful island,” she guessed, her tone droll.

Tyrion intervened. “I’ve never known a Stark to travel south simply for pleasure, Your Grace.”

“Aye, it’s true that my family has never fared well outside of the North.” Jon clasped his hands behind him and appealed directly to the queen. “You asked for my help. The truth is, I need your help as well. We all do.”

She tilted her head. “My help? With what? If not to free you from the _tyranny of the Iron Throne_ , as you say.”

“The North is a large kingdom, but our people are sparse. War has ravished our land and our homes,” Jon started.

“I believe your own family might share some blame in that,” Tyrion said, and Jon clenched his jaw, glaring at the queen’s hand. She held up her hand between them.

“You did say you valued honesty,” she said on Tyrion’s behalf.

Jon deflected the glancing blow. “We need your help because there is a threat far greater than Cersei, and unless we deal with it together, it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne in the end because we’ll all be dead.”

Silence followed his dire warning. After a moment, Tyrion cleared his throat. “Well, that sounds a _bit_ dramatic—”

“What is this threat you speak of?” the queen interrupted him, and Jon braced for her derision.

“The Others.”

The words meant nothing to her, clearly, judging by the blankness of her expression, but Tyrion reacted, his face twisting in disbelief. “Surely, you don’t believe those tales—”

“They’re real,” Jon interrupted harshly. “I’ve seen them for myself, when I was at the Wall. I’ve fought them. I killed them, and then I watched as they rose again.”

Tyrion scoffed then chortled slightly. “You mean to tell us that the dead walk among us, is that it?”

At his words, Jon went rigid. His vision blurred, and for a second, he couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. All he could feel was the slide of steel into his stomach and his chest, the hot blood filling his mouth—and then the cold, always the cold, seeping all the way down into his bones.

The queen and her hand stared at him curiously, waiting for his reply. His lips parted, but no sound escaped. His skin turned clammy, and it was like a fist was squeezing all the air out of his lungs.

Finally, Davos stepped forward, sensing his king’s distress. “He speaks the truth, Your Grace. I know it sounds impossible—I never would have believed it myself. There are a lot of things I never would have believed possible. But those things are _real_ , whether we believe them or not.”

When Tyrion made another skeptical sound, Davos went on impassionately, stirred to defend his king. “All those impossible things, Jon Snow faced them. He fought those things for the good of his people. He risked his life for his people. He took a knife in the heart for his people. He gave his own—”

Released from his momentary paralysis, Jon looked at his adviser sharply, and Davos stopped, pressing his lips together.

When he turned back around, the queen was still regarding him with a peculiar look. Finally, she shook her head and spoke. “It appears there is much that I am unaware of here,” she said coolly. “I’m afraid I must insist that our guests retire to their rooms, and we can continue this discussion at a later time, once we’re all better rested.”

Before he could object, she directed a command to her guards in the Dothraki tongue. With that, she turned away from him, and Jon and Davos followed their escorts out of the throne room.

* * *

The next day, Jon was just returning to his chambers after breaking his fast with Davos when the queen intercepted him. “Walk with me,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“Is that an order?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Only a suggestion. There is still much I haven’t seen of this island yet, and I thought you might appreciate a tour.”

Immediately, he felt contrite. He hadn’t slept well, which probably accounted for his foul mood this morning; it was strange to be so far from the North. These days, he wasn’t used to sleeping alone, but in its own way, it had been a welcome indulgence, being able to stretch his legs out and take all the coverlets without having to consider the person beside him. For such a fierce woman, Ygritte was surprisingly clingy, latching around him as if she feared he would somehow slip away while she slept.

Truthfully, Jon found he missed the companionship of his loyal direwolf more than anything that first night.

Looking to Davos, he dismissed him with a nod of his head, then he and Queen Daenerys left the castle to explore the grounds. She didn’t say anything for a while, and Jon held his tongue, waiting for her to get to the point eventually. As they walked, the sound of the distant crashing waves and the whistling sea breeze was the only music. Before trekking up a cliff, the queen ordered her Dothraki guards to stay behind, and they headed up alone. He took the opportunity to study her.

She was like no queen he’d ever met before. Instead of the expected ornately embroidered gowns, she wore riding leathers under a simple knee-length dress and a cape that billowed in the breeze. No crown adorned her silver hair, which had been twisted and plaited into braids so intricate, Jon suspected she had to have gotten up before the sun just to complete them. In comparison, Jon had left his heavy fur cloak behind, dressed in only his leather gambeson and gorget, and he was glad for it; the winds on this bluff were so strong, the bloody thing likely would have strangled him.

Finally, Queen Daenerys glanced at him. “I spoke to my hand after our meeting yesterday,” she said, her pace a leisurely walk. Jon said nothing, still waiting for her to elaborate. “I didn’t grow up in Westeros, so I have never heard of these tales about the Others before. He filled me in on the stories, but he seems convinced they’re nothing more than just that. Wild Northern fancies.”

“And you believe him,” Jon said flatly.

“Lord Tyrion is a smart man,” she said simply. “It’s why I made him my hand.” She hesitated. “But he’s also cynical by nature.”

Confused, he frowned. “So...you believe me?”

She stopped and turned to him. “I’m sure before I sailed for Westeros, stories about my dragons were summarily dismissed as well.” As if summoned by her words, one of her dragons, the large black beast, flew overhead, its shadow momentarily blotting out the sun. Jon watched it in wonder, its screeches fading as it disappeared over the edge of the cliff. Soon, more cries joined it, and he realized the other two beasts must be on the other side of the cliff as well.

“How did you do it?” he heard himself ask, unable to keep the awe from his voice. “Dragons have been gone for more than a century.”

She didn’t answer him right away, not until he looked back to her. Her face was open and honest. “I walked into my husband’s funeral pyre with three stone eggs, and when I emerged, they had hatched.”

He would have thought her to be mocking him, but she said it with such earnestness, he had no choice but to believe her. “You...walked into a fire?” he repeated dumbly. Her skin, what he could see of it, was pristine. Pale and smooth, like the underside of a seashell. Unmarred. Not like the mottled skin on his hand from where he’d burned it years ago, nor like the angry, red scars that riddled his torso.

She smiled faintly. “You see why I’m less dismissive of your stories than Lord Tyrion is.” She continued walking, and after a beat, Jon made to follow, quickly falling into step with her. “Do you believe in magic, my lord?” she asked conversationally.

If Davos were here, he would correct her mistitling him, but Jon found he didn’t really care.

He considered her question. The scars on his chest, his standing beside her now, were answer enough. But it wasn’t an answer he felt comfortable giving.

“There’s magic in the Wall, Your Grace,” he said instead. “And in the North, among the free folk, there are wargs and skinchangers.” At her questioning look, he explained, “People who can slip into the minds of animals.” He shrugged. “What you might consider magic has always just _been_ for some of us.”

She was quiet as she mulled that over. When she spoke next, her voice had changed. Less soft and curious, and more like the queen who had greeted him in her throne room. “You want my help in fighting these Others. How, exactly?”

He explained it to her, about the dead, and their susceptibility to fire. “Dragons would be invaluable,” he said. “And, admittedly, we need your numbers. You said you have the Reach, Dorne, the Iron Fleet, the Dothraki, and the Unsullied. Combined, that’s more men than I have in the North.”

She nodded. “And what would I get in return?”

His mouth turned down at the corners. “What do you mean?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I assumed we were negotiating. You want something from me. Typically, this would be the part where you offer me something in exchange.”

Scowling slightly, he looked away. He knew what she wanted. “I can’t bend the knee to you. My people chose me as their king. They didn’t even want me to come here in the first place. If I come back and they learn I’ve given up my crown, they’ll revolt. They’ve done it before, with the last southron king; they won’t hesitate to do it again.”

“So.” She frowned pensively. “You would have me risk my people and my dragons for your kingdom, but you won’t do anything in return. Is that what you’re saying?”

Jaw clenched, he looked to her again. “It’s not just for the North. If my people fail to stop the Others, it will be everyone’s problem.”

“But the Wall keeps them out, doesn’t it?”

“For now.”

She shrugged. “Then we have time to come to some arrangement.”

He sighed. “The free folk don’t have any more time, Your Grace. The Wall protects everyone south of it, but many of the free folk are already dead. The rest have been run out of their homes by the Others.”

“Forgive me, but the free folk are an independent people, aren’t they?”

“Aye, but they’re still _people_ ,” he insisted. “Or do you only care for those who call you queen?”

At that, her face contorted in anger. He struck a nerve, he realized, but he wasn’t sorry for it. Before she could respond, however, a man in maester robes appeared over the hill, a scroll clutched in his hand. For a maester, he looked rather young and baby-faced. He bowed when he reached them. “A raven came, Your Grace.” When the queen went to take it, the maester hesitated. “For—for the King in the North, it says.”

Queen Daenerys narrowed her eyes at Jon suspiciously. “Why are there ravens coming to you here?”

He was equally bemused. “I don’t know.” Fearing the worst, he accepted the scroll, and the maester bowed before he hurried away. As Jon thought, the House Stark sigil was stamped into the seal. He glanced at the queen again. She merely clasped her hands together before her and watched him expectantly as he unrolled the scroll. There was a parchment wrapped around the scroll, signed by the Lady of Winterfell.

_Jon_ , it read, _this came for you not long after you left. I thought the message urgent and trust it will find its way into your hands and yours alone._ It was a good thing Queen Daenerys had not read the scroll first; his sister’s pointed slight at the queen’s untrustworthiness was not subtle. Unraveling the second parchment, he began to read.

“It’s from my friend Samwell Tarly,” he told her after a moment, surprised himself to be hearing from Sam. “He is—was—my Sworn Brother for the Night’s Watch. When I was still Lord Commander, I sent him to Oldtown so he could train to be our next maester and help us against the Others. He says that in his studies he has learned that Dragonstone sits on a large deposit of obsidian. Dragonglass.”

The queen was nonplussed. “And?”

He took a deep breath. “Dragonglass has proven invaluable in fighting the wights.”

After a beat, she smiled wanly. “Well. Isn’t that fortuitous. And I suppose you would like to take this dragonglass for your war.”

Why lie? “Aye.”

She turned her back to the wind, tendrils of spun silver whipping across her face as she stared off, deep in thought. A few strands stuck to her pink lips, and, unbidden, he had the urge to reach out and brush them away. His hand twitched and lifted slightly before he caught himself, clenching his fist against the traitorous impulse. _Bloody hell._ That was one way to lose his hand, he was sure.

“I should probably speak to my hand before making any decisions,” she finally said. Jon prepared to argue when she continued, “ _But_ as I am not currently using the dragonglass and see no use for it, I don’t see why I shouldn’t let you mine it.”

He blinked at her in surprise. “Really?”

“Take it as a gesture of my good faith. While your men mine it, we can continue our negotiations.” Seeing his jaw tighten, she smiled. “And, hopefully, when we talk next, you will have an offer for me to consider.”

* * *

**iii.**

With the queen’s permission, Jon sent his men to mine the dragonglass from the caves they found along the beaches. The veins of obsidian deposits were carved deep into the bluffs; there was more than Jon could possibly hope to take back with him to Winterfell, not on one ship, anyway. Hopefully, by the time they were ready to set sail again, he would have persuaded the queen to join his fight; with the Iron Fleet, she had more than enough ships to spare.

As they worked, he saw little of the queen. He and his men got up with the sun and didn’t leave the caves until well after dark. For that first week, he did little else, and she did not interfere; still, she saw to it that they were fed. He and Davos were also provided hot water for bathing. After a long day spent in the caves, tiny flecks of black glass shimmered stubbornly on their skin and in their hair.

After a few days, the queen’s adviser, Missandei, ventured down to the caves to invite Jon and Davos to dine with the queen. They agreed. Not wanting to show up dirty and damp with sweat, Jon first returned to his chambers to wash up. Freshly bathed, he changed into more presentable clothes, leaving behind his armor entirely.

Dothraki guards led him and Davos to a hall where Queen Daenerys sat at the head of a table, joined by Lord Tyrion and Missandei, as well as the eunuch Varys and the Unsullied commander Grey Worm. Realizing they’d not begun eating yet, Jon flushed.

“Pardon our lateness, Your Grace,” he said. “I didn’t realize you would be waiting on us.”

The queen gestured for him to sit. “There’s nothing to apologize for. You’re here as my guests,” she told him. Once he and Davos occupied the empty chairs, a servant woman came forward to pour them wine.

“We do appreciate the effort you put into making yourselves presentable, however,” Tyrion jested, helping himself to his own large goblet of wine.

“Just wanted to demonstrate to the queen’s court that not all Northmen are barbarians,” Jon returned, smiling slightly.

“I like to think I’m more open-minded than that,” Queen Daenerys objected as more servants brought out dishes of food to place on the tables.

Jon nodded. “Aye, I think your council is testament to that fact.”

She sipped her wine, before saying, “Besides, if I were going to judge you, it would be for your name, not your homeland.”

Jon’s stomach sank. “My name?” he echoed hollowly.

She arched an eyebrow at him. “You are a Stark, are you not? Your family _did_ help bring about my family’s downfall, after all.”

He blinked, realizing she wasn’t referring to his bastardy. “Oh.” He was so relieved, he couldn’t seem to muster up the proper amount of indignation at the charge she leveled. “Well, considering what your family did to mine, is it any surprise?”

Her eyebrow arched impossibly higher, and he sensed how everyone else tensed. Tyrion cleared his throat, breaking the strain that had briefly settled over the table. “No worse than what my family did to both of yours, and yet here we all sit, breaking bread together.” Cheerfully, he lifted his cup in toast.

Jon kept his eyes on the queen, who was still looking at him. After a moment, she smiled and lifted her cup as well.

“Yes. Hopefully, together, we can all right the wrongs of our forebears.”

Jon relaxed, swallowed, and nodded his head in reciprocation, then drank his wine with the others.

“So, how goes the mining?” Tyrion asked conversationally. Despite his increasing inebriation, the other man seemed genuinely interested, so Jon proceeded to tell him about their progress so far.

* * *

He liked these people. It was an unsettling realization, perhaps aided by copious amounts of wine and hours of casual conversation as their small feast lingered well into the evening. Jon envied the easy rapport among the queen and her advisers; they jested and laughed freely with each other, galvanized by Tyrion’s dry humor and loose tongue. Before long, Jon found himself laughing with them and sharing stories from his time on the Wall and even about growing up in Winterfell. They were all trivial tales, ones he’d be comfortable sharing with anyone. Still, Queen Daenerys appeared keen on hearing them, fascinated by a childhood so different from her own. In the interest of keeping the mood light, she shared very little of hers, but from what Jon heard, he counted himself fortunate in some regards.

Gradually, their gathering dwindled. Jon noticed Missandei and Grey Worm sneaking glances at each other before eventually bidding the queen good night and disappearing together. Tyrion got so drunk, the queen took his cup away with a censuring look. Varys offered to help him to bed, and Davos decided to follow suit, lest he soon find himself in Tyrion’s state.

It was just Jon and the queen, he realized with a start. She’d nursed her wine slower than the others during supper, he’d noticed, and even so her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed. She painted a very disarming picture. He brought his cup up for a hearty swig then thought better of it, setting it aside, unfinished. He should call it a night as well.

“Do you miss Winterfell?” she asked him before he could announce his intentions.

“Aye.” He reconsidered it. “I mean, I do, but I’d first left home when I was six-and-ten and have only recently returned. I’m used to missing it, I suppose.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure they miss their king, though. Your sister, especially.”

He wanted to laugh at that—and then realized he _had_ laughed out loud when she gave him a startled look. Ruefully, he scratched at his beard. “I’m not too sure about that. She’s probably glad to be the one making the decisions for a change.”

She gave him a droll smile. “I can’t say I blame her.” Her brow creased slightly. “Surely, there is someone anticipating your return…?”

Ygritte’s face flashed through his mind, but he hesitated. They’d not left on the best of terms; she’d refused to see him off the morning he rode to White Harbor, still angry about his decision to meet with Queen Daenerys. Of course, he knew she would be there when he returned; she always came around, no matter how wroth she might be with him.

His mouth twitched in an uncomfortable smile. “Ghost, maybe,” he said instead.

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“My direwolf.” At her astonishment, his smile turned genuine. “He’s white as snow and just as quiet. He’s been my constant companion for years.”

“A direwolf,” she repeated. “You tamed one?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know that I would say that. Truthfully, he’s just a giant pup. Well, until he rips out a man’s throat, I suppose.” He winced at the carelessness of his tongue; perhaps, he’d drank too much, after all.

Queen Daenerys was unbothered. “Still...a direwolf for a _pet_ ,” she mused, and he snorted.

“Says the woman with three dragons.”

She smiled suddenly, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. “Would you like to meet them?”

* * *

She took him to the bluff where her dragons slumbered, no guards, just a single torch between them. Jon didn’t really grasp the magnitude of what they were doing until the big black beast stirred at their approach. It heaved out a loud breath as if irritated at being disturbed, and Jon felt the blast of hot air against his face even from yards away.

“Fucking hell,” he blurted, coming to an abrupt halt. The queen carried on, lifting her hand in a calming gesture.

“Hush, my love,” she cooed, as if she were talking to a mere babe. The beast settled slightly, lowering its head to her. She rested her hand on its snout, petting lovingly, her hand just a white speck against the black scales. “His name is Drogon.”

“His?” Jon echoed stupidly, staring at them wide-eyed, and she nodded.

“He is my mount. I named him for my dead husband. The others are Viserion and Rhaegal, after my brothers.”

As if responding to her call, the other two dragons lifted their heads, watching the scene curiously from a near distance. Jon felt himself begin to sweat.

“They’re...magnificent,” he said, and he meant it. Despite his apprehension, he could appreciate the sheer majesty of the beasts, at being this close to _three bloody dragons_.

His feet moved of their own accord, bringing him closer. Drogon’s smoldering red eyes blinked, narrowing in warning or curiosity, Jon couldn’t be sure. They reminded him of Ghost’s eyes. Tremulously, Jon lifted a hand, hesitating briefly before he laid it on the dragon’s snout. Surprised, he sucked in a breath; the scales were hot to the touch.

Drogon brought his face closer to Jon, inhaling his scent deeply. He bit back a delirious laugh; definitely like Ghost. Seeming satisfied with what he smelled, Drogon relaxed.

“Incredible,” Daenerys said, drawing Jon’s attention. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. “Drogon never lets anyone touch him but me.”

Jon blanched, jerking his hand away out of reflex. “Bloody hell, and you didn’t think to warn me?”

She just laughed, the sound ringing through the night.

* * *

**iv.**

“You wanted to see me, Your Grace?” Jon asked, entering the Chamber of the Painted Table. The Dothraki guards who had escorted him to the queen retreated, leaving them alone.

“Please. Come in.” She stared at a map of Westeros, pieces spread out across it. She must have held her war council earlier.

Jon ambled closer, stopping at the other end of the table. Her hair was down, less braids holding it back. After their dinner the night before, and then the gambol with the dragons, perhaps she’d awoken too late to dedicate as much time to her appearance. Even so, she looked elegant and lovely. In comparison, Jon felt filthy, having been pulled away from the mines for this meeting. He wished he’d had a moment to wipe off his face before coming to see her, at least.

Truthfully, he didn’t know where this obsessive impulse to bathe when in her presence came from.

He waited for her to speak next. He could tell she was preoccupied with something, her gaze distant as she studied the map. Did she mean to rebuke him for last night? For being too free with her, with her dragons? He fought the urge to shift or fidget, determined to appear unaffected.

Finally, she sighed quietly and shook her head, looking to him. “Have you given any more thought to our discussion?”

He frowned, drawing a blank. “Which one?”

She gave him a knowing look. “You’ve mined quite a lot of dragonglass. Far more than your one ship can carry, I’m guessing.”

This wasn’t about last night, after all. Clearing his muddled thoughts, he nodded slowly. “Aye. We would need more ships to transport it north.”

She came around the table toward him. “And I assume you plan to ask me for those ships.”

“It was on my mind to ask, Your Grace,” he admitted.

“Daenerys.” At his questioning look, she huffed. “My name. I would prefer it if you call me Daenerys.”

He hesitated, surprised by how _familiar_ she was asking him to be with her. “That’s...not usually how it’s done,” he finally said.

She folded her arms over her chest, leaning her hip against the table. “You don’t recognize me as your queen, so calling me ‘Your Grace’ seems unnecessary, don’t you think? We can both dispense with the formalities, I think. Your adviser is like to bite his tongue off every time I call you _my lord_ as it is.”

Jon smiled faintly. “You needn’t worry. I told him to stand down.” It hardly seemed a battle worth fighting at this point.

She nodded and turned back to the map. “So, you want my ships. More than that, you want my army and my dragons to go with you north to fight the Others. That would make us allies, would it not?”

Jon gave her a curt nod. “That would probably be the word for it.”

“And allies help each other.” At her raised eyebrow, he nodded grudgingly. “So you would help me in my fight against Cersei.”

He hesitated. “I can’t risk any men in your war, Your—Daenerys. We need all the living we can get.”

“And what about after?” she asked. “If we defeat the Others, would you help me then?”

He held her gaze. “I…” He looked away. “I would need to talk to my men—”

She scoffed. “Are you or are you not their king?”

He gnashed his teeth. “I am.”

“And doesn’t being king mean you make decisions for your people? Or do you intend to wait while I go out and ask every one of my Dothraki and Unsullied for their opinion on fighting _your_ war?”

He glared at her. “Being king means I try to make the best decisions possible for my people. And I’m not sure fighting another bloody war against the Lannisters for a throne that isn’t even ours to worry about _is_ the best decision.”

Her cheeks darkened, and he was sure she meant to throw him out. Instead, her nostrils flared as she inhaled deeply, composing herself. “I want what is best for _my_ people, as well, and I still consider the North a part of the Seven Kingdoms.“ He opened his mouth to object, but she didn’t let him. “You want to protect everyone, not just the North, correct?”

He drummed his gloved fingers on the map angrily. “Aye.”

“What if they were all your people, too?”

He stared at her, not comprehending. “What are you asking?”

The queen looked toward the map, avoiding his gaze. “It seems to me that the simplest solution to our impasse here would be...marriage.”

The number of times she had stunned him speechless by now, he couldn’t count. “I—what?”

She still didn’t look at him, her hands fluttering along the edge of the table. “We both want something the other has. You are unwed, as am I. We are of a similar age.” She lifted a shoulder. “When I sailed for Westeros, it was with the understanding that I would eventually need to wed.”

His mouth opened and closed. “Surely, you have other offers,” he said lamely.

She licked her lips. “Lady Olenna mentioned something about a distant cousin, I suppose, but it was not a stipulation of her support. As of yet, I remain...unattached.”

Jon stared at her. She couldn’t actually be asking _him…_ “But I’m a bastard,” he reminded her.

“You are a bastard who is a king.” She shrugged. “And I am a foreign whore who is a queen. What of it?”

He flinched at her crude description. “You’re not a whore.”

She finally faced him. “It’s what some will call me. I don’t care. Nor do I care about your being a bastard.”

She regarded him with such openness, such vulnerability, his gut twisted. “I’m sorry, Daenerys, but...I can’t. I...there’s someone back home…” he trailed off.

Her eyes fluttered rapidly. “Oh. But—you didn’t mention—” She stopped herself. “I didn’t realize you were betrothed.”

He winced and averted his gaze. “I’m not. Betrothed, I mean.”

“But you’re spoken for?” she asked, confused.

He equivocated, unsure how to explain Ygritte to her. There was too much history there to unburden on a near stranger. “She’s...a free folk woman. We met when I was at the Night’s Watch.” _I lied to her. I betrayed her. She tried to kill me._ “She’s been by my side for years. Even when I didn’t deserve it. I can’t…”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, and when he looked to her, her expression had shuttered. “Of course,” she said, turning away from him again. Her voice was firm, dispassionate. Queenly. The shyness and uncertainty from a moment ago was gone. “You don’t need to explain any more. It’s not my place. I only thought—well. It doesn’t matter. ”

He’d embarrassed her, that much was plain. He hated that. “Daenerys,” he started, his voice gentle, but she wasn’t interested in continuing the discussion.

“I can lend you two ships from the Iron Fleet, but I’m afraid I cannot spare anymore than that. We are preparing a naval attack on King’s Landing.”

The abrupt change in conversation had his head reeling. “Of course. Thank you,” he said, for lack of a better response.

She only nodded, eyes focused on the map once more. Apparently, he was dismissed. Without another word, he left.

* * *

The next day, Jon was waiting for her in the Chamber of the Painted Table. Her advisers were with her, preparing for another war council. She stopped when she saw him standing there, studying her map.

“What are you doing in here?” she demanded, caught off guard. Her advisers seemed equally taken aback.

Without preamble, Jon pointed to the Greyjoy and Martell pieces that sat in Blackwater Bay. “You plan to besiege King’s Landing by ship, correct?”

Frowning, she looked between him and the map. “Yes,” she said, wariness in her voice.

“It’s not a good strategy,” he said bluntly.

Tyrion made a sound of disagreement. “And why is that?”

“It’s a waste of your resources. Taking a castle is always harder than defending one, especially a place as well-protected as the Red Keep,” Jon explained.

“And what do you know about sieging a castle?” Varys asked.

“I know I lost most of my men trying to take Winterfell back from the Boltons, and the only reason we won was because the Knights of the Vale intervened last-minute, taking our enemy by surprise,” Jon said.

Bemused, Tyrion shook his head. “Forgive me, but that doesn’t do much to recommend _your_ strategies.”

“I helped successfully defend Castle Black with only a hundred men against a wildling attack of thousands of men, women, and giants,” Jon argued. “ _Defending_ a fortress is easier, any commander can tell you that.”

“What’s your point, exactly?” Daenerys interrupted the argument, her eyes fixed on him. She looked suspicious but receptive to hearing his advice.

He gestured across the map, toward Casterly Rock where the Unsullied pieces sat. “Splitting your army only weakens it. You’re wasting your time, attacking anything but King’s Landing.”

She furrowed her brow. “You just said I shouldn’t attack King’s Landing, though.”

Jon shook his head. “Not by sea, and not by land. You’d only get caught in a protracted war with the Lannisters that could hurt you more than them.”

“So what are you proposing?” she pressed.

He tapped a finger next to the three dragon pieces at Dragonstone. “You have dragons, something no one else has. So why aren’t you using them?”

Eyes widening, Tyrion stepped forward. “The queen and I have already agreed that attacking the city with the dragons would result in a catastrophic loss of life.”

Jon looked from him to Daenerys. “Aye, that would be bad. So take the Red Keep directly. No one else has to die. This war could be over within a fortnight, preventing thousands of needless deaths.”

Daenerys didn’t immediately respond as she mulled over his suggestion. Tyrion turned to her. “Your Grace, we discussed this,” he said urgently. “Using the dragons to burn the Red Keep might turn the people of King’s Landing against you. It’s too risky.”

After his appeal, Daenerys looked to Jon again. Reading the question in her face, Jon merely shrugged. “It’s only my advice. Take it or leave it. But I felt like I owed you that much. For the dragonglass.”

With that, he bowed his head and left.

* * *

Jon was the last to leave the cave that night, the deep purples and oranges of the sunset already giving way to the black of night. He wasn’t surprised to see Davos waiting for him, but he did not expect the queen to be there as well.

“Ah, there he is. I was beginning to get worried,” Davos said in that lilting Flea Bottom accent of his.

“Short of a cave-in, there’s not much to worry about,” Jon replied, stopping by the trough of water the queen had provided for the Northmen while they mined. He ladeled some of the water into his mouth, swishing it around before spitting it out. The next cup of water he brought to his mouth, he swallowed.

“Oh, I wasn’t worried about you,” Davos jested. “More worried for myself, and what those Dothraki fellows would do to me if they found me dawdling with the queen for too long.”

Daenerys laughed unexpectedly, making Jon think of that night on the bluffs. His hand stilled as he looked to her, momentarily mesmerized by the way the flames of the torches that marked the entrance of the cave danced across her face, painting her face in soft pinks and yellows.

“I assure you, you have nothing to worry about from my men, Ser Davos. Thank you for waiting with me,” she told the older man. He bowed slightly to her then Jon.

“See you on the morrow,” he said jovially before he turned to amble off in the direction of the keep, leaving the two of them alone.

Taking a moment to gather himself, Jon splashed some of the water on his face to rinse off any shivers of obsidian. Then he turned to her, wiping at his eyes. “Is there a problem?” he asked. She stepped closer to him.

“A small one, perhaps.” At his questioning look, she elaborated, “My hand is quite cross with you.”

About his advice. Of course. “I meant no offense to him or you. And if I overstepped my bounds, I apologize.”

“You did overstep.” She smiled before he could react. “But I appreciate that you did. Actually, I think Lord Tyrion is more cross with _me_ than with you. For listening to you.”

He narrowed his eyes skeptically. “What do you mean?”

Daenerys took a deep breath. “I’ve changed our plan of attack, on your suggestion. Frankly, your idea is what the majority of my allies were in favor of doing from the start. Only Tyrion had convinced me otherwise.”

Jon winced. No doubt Tyrion was a proud man; he couldn’t fault him for being vexed at being undermined, especially by Ned Stark’s bastard. “Why?” he asked.

“Why would I follow your suggestion?” He nodded, and she shrugged. “I think you’re fair and honest. And I think my winning is ultimately to your benefit, as you need my resources. So I trust you to give me advice you think is sound. I trust that your advice _is_ sound.”

“I gave you advice I would take myself,” he said gruffly. “Whether it’s good or not, I don’t know, but it’s what I would do in your position.”

“I imagine you became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch at such a young age for a good reason.”

He looked away, weirdly embarrassed by her compliment. Clearing his throat, he turned away from the trough, looking out toward the sea as the waves gently crashed against the shore. “So, what now?”

She turned to face the shore with him. “I want to expedite this war with Cersei. The longer I wait, the more time she has to shore up her defenses. So the Iron Fleet will surround them on Blackwater Bay, while my army rides up to the gates of King’s Landing. Once they’re in position, I will fly my dragons to the Red Keep and offer Cersei a chance to surrender. If she refuses, then I will attack.”

Head snapping around, he gaped at her. “ _You’ll_ fly your dragons to the Red Keep?”

She frowned. “Yes. Who else did you think would take them?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, stunned. She’d called Drogon her mount, but for some reason he hadn’t thought that meant that she’d have to _ride_ him into battle herself. “I thought you just...sent them in.”

“Do you send your horse into battle without a rider?” She made a sound almost like a snort. “My ancestors were dragonriders, Jon Snow.”

_Still…_ He shook his head. “You shouldn’t be leading the bloody charge. It’s too dangerous,” he said, heedless of his coarse language.

When she looked at him, her eyes glinted dangerously. “Did you not lead the charge to reclaim Winterfell?”

He opened his mouth and faltered. “Aye, but that was different—”

She narrowed her eyes into slits. “Different, how? Because of that cock between your legs?”

His face flushed. “No, I didn’t mean—I _had_ to do it because no one else would. No one else _could_.”

“And no one else can command my dragons,” she retorted. She glowered out at the sea, and in the torchlight her eyes glimmered like amethysts. “Besides, what kind of queen would I be if I’m not willing to fight for my people? If I can’t defeat Cersei, if I can’t save them from her, then...I don’t deserve the right to call myself their queen.”

For a moment, neither spoke, the air fraught with discord. Finally, Jon took a deep breath, tamping down the wild beat of his heart. “I admire your courage,” he said quietly. “And the fact that you care enough to risk your life. For that alone, I know you’d make a better queen than Cersei. But...if you lose, you’ll most certainly die. And if you die...”

He didn’t know how to put it into words, this leaden ball of dread that was solidifying in his chest and rising up in his throat, threatening to choke him. Gods—why the thought of her dying should terrify him so—

Daenerys turned to him, her eyes hard. “If I win this war, I intend to fight for you, for your people, against the Others. But if I die—you needn’t worry, Jon Snow. You’ll still have your dragonglass.”

Without another word, she turned and left, Jon’s eyes following her until he could no longer track her in the dark.

* * *

**v.**

The Iron Fleet launched the next day, more than half the ships ferrying the Dothraki and Unsullied to Crackclaw Point where they would be aided in secret by Targaryen loyalists; the rest sailed for King’s Landing. Once they were in position, they would send a raven, and Daenerys would fly directly to the Red Keep to attack.

As promised, she left two ships for Jon to transport the dragonglass to the North. Having stripped the caves of most of its obsidian, he loaded the dragonglass onto the ships and sent Davos and his men with the supplies on to White Harbor.

But he stayed behind on Dragonstone, unable to leave knowing he’d essentially sent Daenerys to her possible death. He didn’t try to talk her out of it as he knew it was useless; he didn’t know why he should succeed where her hand had failed. It wasn’t his place to counsel her, anyway. But he had to do something.

He sat down in his chambers to write a letter to Sansa, letting her know his intentions.

_Ser Davos is bringing you all the dragonglass you will need against the dead if they should breach the Wall. If Queen Daenerys wins her war, she plans to journey North to help us in this fight. And I will do everything I can to see that she succeeds. If I don’t return, Winterfell is yours. Tell Ygritte_

He hesitated, unsure what to say to her. _I’m sorry_ didn’t seem sufficient. He knew what words she would want to hear, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to write them. He should write her a separate letter, one for her eyes only. Tell her all the things he should have told her a long time ago. After Melisandre brought him back.

Instead, he crossed out the last line and simply signed it, _Jon Snow._ Then he took it to the rookery.

* * *

The raven from the queen’s army came that following day. That night, Jon went to Daenerys in the Chamber of the Painted Table, where she convened with the present members of her war council.

“Your Grace,” he said stiffly. He hadn’t spoken to her since their last conversation on the beach. “A word, if you please.”

Tyrion shook his head, his expression scornful. “Haven’t you said enough?”

Daenerys held Jon’s gaze then looked away, nodding to her advisers to dismiss them. Grimly, Missandei and Varys left the Chamber of the Painted Table, but Tyrion lingered, coddling a cup of wine.

“Don’t you have a ship to catch, my lord?” Daenerys asked Jon, unconcerned by her hand’s stubborn presence. “There’s no more dragonglass to mine.”

“I’m not here for the dragonglass,” Jon said, moving farther into the room.

Tyrion flung his hand toward the large open windows, spilling some of his wine. “It’s for these magnificent views then, is it?” he said wryly, but Jon ignored him, speaking directly to Daenerys.

“I would like to come with you.” He swallowed, his throat as dry and gritty as sand. “To fight with you.” _For you_ , he chastised himself. That’s what he should have said.

Daenerys’ face went slack with shock, and Tyrion groaned loudly. “Perfect. So you’ll _both_ die, and then in addition to Cersei calling for my head, I’ll have the North calling for my head, too, for getting _their_ bloody king killed.”

Jon cut a look at the little man. “I already sent a raven to my sister so she’ll know what’s happened in case I don’t return.” _She might even be glad for it_ , he thought, perhaps a bit too unkindly.

“Why?” Daenerys asked, perplexed. “This isn’t your war.”

“Suicidal tendencies, I presume,” Tyrion muttered into his cup, realizing no one was listening to him, anyway.

_Why?_ It was a good question, one he wasn’t sure he really had an answer to. Not an answer he cared to examine too closely, in any case. “You took my advice,” Jon finally said. “I feel like it’s only right I should see this through to the end.”

“And what a bloody end it shall be,” Tyrion said mockingly, finishing off his wine. “It’s too late for you to play the hero, Jon Snow. If you sail for King’s Landing now, the battle will be over before you even arrive.”

He was likely right. Jon wilted slightly, and Daenerys was quiet as she held his gaze.

After a moment, she spoke. “Not if he rides with me.”

* * *

Staring at the dragons before them, Jon felt his heart thrashing wildly against his ribs. “Is this going to work?” he asked, absently touching the hilt of Longclaw at his waist. It was like an extra limb, one he’d missed ever since anchoring in Dragonstone when her guards had stripped him of his weapons. Daenerys had brought him his blade that morning as he’d donned his leather armor in his chambers in preparation for battle.

She looked back at him, her boot coming to rest on one of Drogon’s long, curved talons. Viserion and Rhaegal were near, unfolding their wings to flap them out, ready for their mother’s commands.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But he’s comfortable with you. As long as you’re with me, he won’t hurt you.” She scaled up Drogon’s side with ease, as if simply mounting a horse. Twisting in her seat, she reached a hand down for him from a great height.

Jon looked up and faltered at the sight of her, momentarily transfixed. She was dressed in steel armor, pauldrons on her shoulders and a chest plate fitted over her breasts and waist. Bracers and greaves were fixed to her arms and legs, and a leather war skirt clung to her thighs. Atop her dragon, with the dawning sun setting her on fire, casting her in golds and reds, she looked every bit like the fierce warrior queen she was.

Shaking himself, he laid a hand against the dragon’s hide. Warmth rushed through him, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Unbothered, Drogon paid him no mind, stretching out his neck and craning his head toward the sky.

With a deep breath, Jon hoisted himself up onto the giant beast and grabbed for her hand.

* * *

He found her in the Great Hall, standing before the Iron Throne. Shattered leaded glass littered the floor, leading him to her like a kaleidoscope of color. The stone walls around them were scorched, blackened by dragon fire. As he approached, glass crunched beneath his boots. Hearing him, she turned to face him

Her face was streaked with soot and ash, and her silver-blonde hair was a knotted mess of braids, tangled by the winds that had held Drogon aloft as they’d flown over Blackwater Bay and then King’s Landing.

In her victory, she was painfully, undeniably sublime.

“The city is yours,” he told her.

At the end of the day, it had been relatively easy. In the face of three grown dragons and a horde of Dothraki screamers, the Lannister army had buckled almost immediately, throwing down their swords in surrender. Cersei, however, had not been so compliant. On Drogon, Daenerys had made quick work of the keep, but in the end Cersei’s body had been found in the dry moat below Maegor’s Holdfast.

Fitting, that she should kill herself before deigning to surrender. Defiant until the end.

Daenerys nodded and, after a contemplative moment, turned back to the throne. He stepped up beside her to study it with her. It was strange to behold it, the chair that had ultimately cost his father his head.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” she asked quietly, and he glanced at her. “I think I might burn it.”

Jon’s gruff, surprised laugh echoed through the throne room, and she smiled, just a faint one. “Thank you,” she told him after a beat.

He shook his head, facing her. She did the same. “It was all you. I probably could have stayed behind with Tyrion, after all.” He’d had to cut down a few stubborn agitators, and one particularly nasty brute Jon wasn’t entirely sure was human, but most of the work had been done before they’d even dismounted Drogon.

She shook her head. “No. Without your council, who knows how long this war would have gone on? How many lives lost?” She regarded him earnestly, and his smile slipped. “Jon, I want you to know I will keep my word. I will fight with you. I will take my army North, and we are going to defeat the Others. We’ll do it together.”

He stared at her, unable to look away. “And what of my crown?”

She shook her head. “I ask nothing more in return.”

She meant it, he knew. Even so, even though she no longer asked for it, he found himself wanting to pull his sword out and lay it at her feet, to kneel and swear his unwavering fealty to her. It was on the tip of his tongue to do so.

Instead, he choked down the words—and without any real thought, he kissed her. His hands came down roughly on her face, cupping her jaw as his lips parted hers, his tongue slipping between. When his tongue grazed hers, all reason and sanity fled his mind completely. She tasted like a revelation, and he was suddenly drunk on it. With a groan, he kissed her hungrily, teeth catching on her plump bottom lip. She whimpered, and he opened her mouth wider, tongue reaching in as far as he could physically reach. She leaned into him, kissing him with just as much fervent desperation. Then his hands were pulling on the collar of her breast plate, her hands tugging at his armor, both of them thwarted in their quest. Frustrated, he growled, ready to hoist her onto the throne and pull her breeches down and just take her—

With a gasp, he recoiled, catching her hands to stop her. She looked up at him, her lips bruised and wet from his mouth, her violet eyes peeled wide. Pained, Jon clenched his eyes against the crushing wave of shame that rolled through him, threatening to submerge him.

“I’m sorry,” he grunted out, wheezing. “I can’t—I shouldn’t have—gods. Forgive me, Daenerys.”

Her hands dropped to her sides, hanging limply, but she didn’t speak. With some effort, he stepped away from her. Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the throne room.

* * *

**vi.**

Daenerys left Grey Worm and Qhono, a trusted Dothraki lieutenant, in charge of her forces at King’s Landing to secure the Red Keep and deal with the prisoners, while she and Jon flew back to Dragonstone.

The journey there was short but fraught with tension. Daenerys did not speak to him; he wouldn’t know what to say, even if she had. He was ashamed of his actions; he’d disrespected both her and Ygritte. Yet he couldn’t regret it, not entirely. Kissing her had felt—gods help him, it had felt right. That sense of rightness, like things finally made sense again—he hadn’t felt that since his death. And he didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

Her advisers waited on the bluffs for their return, only approaching once Jon and Daenerys had dismounted Drogon. The dragon gave a victorious screech and took to the skies again where his brothers circled, their thirst for battle not quite sated. They rolled and dove through the clouds, playfully fighting and snapping at each other’s throats high above the seas.

“Congratulations, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, bowing. His eyes were bloodshot from exhaustion and drink, his face gray.

Daenerys laid her hand on his shoulder. “Your sister is dead,” she told him, plainly but not unkindly. “She refused to surrender and threw herself from the keep. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry it had to be this way.”

Stricken, he nodded. “And...Jaime? Do you know?”

“In the dungeons with the other soldiers who peacefully surrendered.”

He closed his eyes, deflating slightly in relief as she moved away from him. Varys took her place to rest a hand on Tyrion’s shoulder in comfort.

Daenerys crossed toward Missandei next and hugged her. “He lives as well, don’t worry,” she whispered in her ear as her friend’s eyes watered. Then she pulled away. “Come. The war is won, but there is still much we must do.”

Her advisers followed after her, leaving Jon standing on the cliff. Before they disappeared over the hill, however, Daenerys looked back at him once. Then she was gone, and all he had were his scattered thoughts.

* * *

For the next few hours, Jon sat through tireless discussions on what came next. There were many logistics to work through—who would be in charge of setting King’s Landing to rights; what to do with the prisoners, especially those who refused to bend the knee; when to hold Daenerys’ coronation; who to honor with positions on her small council for their loyalties.

“My coronation will wait until after the Others are dealt with,” Daenerys insisted. She was still dressed in her armor, her face bearing the marks of their battle. She’d not bothered to bathe before leading everyone into the Chamber of the Painted Table to make arrangements for the transition of power in the south, as well as the war up north.

Exasperated, Tyrion objected. “You can’t leave when you’ve just won the city.”

“And I can’t rest on my laurels just because Cersei has been defeated,” she replied. “I gave the King in the North my word, and I intend to keep it.”

So it was _King in the North_ once again, Jon thought bitterly. She’d barely looked at him since they’d convened this meeting and addressed him only when necessary. Even then, she spoke to him as if he were just another one of her advisers.

It was no less than he deserved, he supposed, but it was driving him mad.

“But if you go North, who will hold the city?” Tyrion demanded, spreading his hands out in appeal.

“That’s why I made you Hand of the Queen. Because I trust you to rule when I can’t,” she told him, which seemed to surprise him. He went quiet, slumping back in his chair. “I will leave my army here and take a small garrison as well as my dragons with me North to assess the threat. We will send for reinforcements as necessary. Is that agreeable?”

She was asking him, Jon realized. He nodded curtly, mouth tightening. “Aye.” It felt like the first word he’d spoken in hours, and she barely gave him a passing glance before moving on to the next subject.

It was well into the night by the time they adjourned. On the morrow, they would begin preparations to journey North. Her advisers stood to leave, as Jon lingered, hoping for a word, but Daenerys simply brushed past him.

Embittered, Jon clenched his jaw and gazed out the open windows before finally turning to leave. He was long overdue for a bath.

* * *

After washing up, Jon lay down to sleep, but despite his exhaustion, he tossed and turned for hours. He knew he should feel guilty, and he did, truly, trying to summon up Ygritte’s face to remind himself of his loyalties. But every time he closed his eyes, all he saw was Daenerys, standing in the throne room, alight with her triumph. She had been so _alive_ , so sure, so vindicated in herself and her purpose, and he had tasted it in the confidence of her kiss, in the ardent way in which she clung to him. For a moment, he’d felt it, too.

He was desperate to feel that way again, to know that certainty.

And he was ravenous for another taste. For _her_.

Throwing aside his covers, he rose from his bed and left his chambers, grateful he was suitably dressed. He always slept in breeches, but ever since his death, he always made sure to sleep in a tunic as well. He hated to see the scars, the evidence of his ordeal, and Ygritte couldn’t stand them anymore than he could.

He walked as if in a trance. The stones were cold on his bare feet, the sensation grounding him as he made his way to the queen’s chambers. The keep was eerily empty, and no guards stood sentinel outside her door this night, as they’d all been left in King’s Landing.

At her door, he hesitated. Lifting his hand, he did not knock; instead, he flattened his palm against the wood, as if he could feel the heat of her through it. His heart was pounding, all the way to his fingertips; he flexed them, digging his blunt nails into the wood. He struggled to quiet his labored breathing, listening for sounds of her inside.

_You can still turn around,_ he told himself. This was enough, he lied; this, and no farther—

The door swung open, and his hand dropped limply to his side. Daenerys stood before him, clutching a robe of painted sandsilk at her throat. Her hair was down in loose, damp waves, her pale face scrubbed clean. At the sight of her, all her defenses and armor shed, he let out a juddering breath.

They stared at each other, both breathing hard. If she was surprised to see him, she didn’t show it. Then, as if she felt the same inevitability he did, she carefully stepped back from the door. Without a word, Jon crossed the threshold into her chambers, shutting the door behind him, unable, and unwilling, to take his eyes off her for a single second.

His heart pounded harder, blood rushing in his ears. As he took a step toward her, she held her ground, lifting her face so their gazes remained unbroken. In the violet depths of her eyes, he saw his own hunger reflected back to him.

Another step, and he was in her space, dragging her scent into his lungs with each breath. The fragrant bouquet of soap and spice made him heady; already his cock strained against the front of his trousers. Eyelids drooping, he lowered his face but moved it to the right of hers. There, he inhaled deeply; up close, she smelled even sweeter, the soap cut with her own feminine essence. His lips grazed her cheek as he skimmed the tip of his nose up to her temple, mouthing her name into her hair. He brought his hands up to her shoulders, curving his palms around the gentle slope of them. At his touch, he heard her sharp intake of breath, and she pressed her cheek firmly against his jaw. Her flesh was hot through the thin sandsilk of her robe, the jut of her clavicle bones digging into his palms.

Jon dragged his hands up to her neck then back out again, this time getting his fingers under the collar of her robe to touch bare skin. He bit back a moan; her skin was softer than the sandsilk. She released her grip on her robe, and, pressing his lips against her temple, he pushed against the material to bare her shoulders entirely. Then he lowered his mouth to her shoulder, parting his lips against her flesh, just barely. He followed the upward slope of her collar bone to her neck, trailing his lips farther along the column of her throat to her jaw. There, her pulse jumped wildly under his mouth, mirroring his own racing heart. He kissed up to the corner of her mouth and waited as her lips graciously parted, her face turning toward his.

When her nose bumped his, he took her lips with his and sighed into her mouth, and for a moment, it was like he was breathing for her. Then he opened her mouth wider, brushing her tongue with his. She trembled, and he curled his hands around her neck to hold her steady as their lips slanted together again, and again—at first, tender and soft, reverent and slow.

But soon their kisses grew rough, demanding, needy. Her tongue tangled with his, sliding like the smooth slip of velvet. With a groan, he clawed open her robe and shoved it down her arms. The garment fluttered to the ground, pooling around her feet, and he broke away, her bottom lip briefly caught between his teeth before he released it, casting his eyes down to find her naked before him.

Her small breasts were rose-tipped and full, her belly flat and sloping downward to a silver thatch of hair at the apex of her pelvis, her hips flaring out in sinful temptation. Her thighs were strong and toned, honed by years of holding her seat on horse and dragon, no doubt. Dark, tormenting thoughts of her riding him flitted through his mind, and he swallowed another groan. She was so exquisite, it hurt to look at her. His cock was at a stand now, the material his trousers chafing against his sensitive head.

His hands twitched, reaching for her and following the path of his gaze, from her breasts to her hips, eager to fill them with her curves. They slid behind her, palming the swells of each perfectly shaped arsecheek, then he brought them to her breasts, cupping the weight of them in his palms.

When he squeezed them, she choked back a gasp and shifted impatiently, squeezing and rubbing her thighs together. Groaning, he kissed her again, heedless of how their noses and teeth clashed as he kneaded her tits, thumbing the nipples into tight, rigid points.

“ _Oh_ ,” she moaned into the kiss—the first real sound she’d made since she opened her door. Finally, she moved into him, sliding her hands up his chest to his shoulders, pulling him close. Frantically, she kissed him, sucking at his lips and tongue, drawing them between the sharp edge of her teeth until he grunted, still mindlessly teasing her nipples.

For once, when she dropped her hands to the hem of his tunic, he thought nothing of it, stopping his attentions to her breasts so she could rid him of the garment. He lifted his arms as she tugged it over his head, breaking the kiss to toss it aside. Only when she tensed was he brought back to himself, finding her transfixed by his scars.

Breathing hard, he gritted his teeth and held himself still for her perusal. He wouldn’t hide—not from her. Her plump lips parted in horror, a small groove forming between her eyes, and after a tense moment she brought her hand to his chest, to the hooked scar right over his heart.

“Tell me,” she whispered. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Still, the words spilled out.

“Some of my men on the Night’s Watch mutinied,” he rasped. “They didn’t like that I was bringing the free folk through the Wall to save them from the Others. They killed me. A Red Priestess brought me back.”

“Melisandre,” she murmured, and his eyes popped open at that name, shock running through him.

“How...?” he asked.

She touched a fingertip to his scar, following the ridged curve. “Does it matter now?” Then she pressed a kiss to the scar, lingering, her lips moving, as if in silent prayer.

No, it didn’t matter, he decided. Nothing before them, before this moment, mattered.

Letting out a tremulous breath, Jon grabbed her by her hips and pulled her against him. She lifted her face and wrapped her hands around his neck, combing her fingers up through his hair, bringing his mouth back down to hers. As they kissed, she dropped one hand between them, sliding her palm over the front of his trousers to cup his cock, rubbing him through his pants as she tugged out his laces. Then she tugged and pushed until his pants were over his erection and his arse, falling to the floor.

Daenerys wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pushed up on her toes, her bare belly rubbing along his cock. He groaned into her mouth, reveling in the feeling. Blind with lust, he walked her backward to her bed to lift her onto it, laying her across the silk sheets and furs. Her hair spilled out around her, trickling across the sheets like silver rivers of water. Her breasts, flushed pink from her excitement and from his attentions, rose and fell with her labored breaths. She opened her legs for him, and he crawled between them, taking her mouth with his in a punishing kiss. She tried to pull him down against her, but he resisted, kissing down her throat and chest, sucking her nipple between his lips. She gasped and arched into him, threading her fingers through his hair as he lavished her breasts, first one then the other, wetting each tip before scraping them with his teeth.

He could smell her sex now, that pungent musk of her arousal. His cock was flushed dark with his own arousal, straining upward for her. Gods, he desperately wanted to thrust forward, bury himself inside her and rut away without any thought or care. Judging by the way she kept pawing at him and lifting her hips to his, she was of the same mind.

But her scent had him desperate for a taste now, his mouth filling with saliva in anticipation.

Jon shifted down the bed, his tongue painting a path over her belly to her pelvis where he passed over her silver curls, already dewy with her arousal. He took her thighs in hand and opened her wider, spreading her cunt for him. She was pink and wet, her plump nether lips coated in a sticky glaze.

She reached for him, but he pressed his mouth to her cunt, dragging his tongue along her slit. She gasped and keened, jerking against him, thighs trembling with the effort to close around his head despite his hold on them. With a belly-deep groan, he licked her again, savoring the taste of her cunt, the slippery arousal filling his mouth and sticking to his beard.

“ _Gods_!” she cried when he thrust his tongue inside her, holding it stiff as he fucked her slowly, nuzzling his nose against her clitoris. Her cunt rippled and clenched around his tongue, wanting to draw him deeper.

Growing impatient, he replaced his tongue with his fingers, sliding them into her channel to fill her. She moaned, her breasts bouncing with her wild trashing, and when he flicked his tongue over her swollen nub, she cried out again, clinging to him. He pumped his fingers in and out, nudging her clitoral hood aside as he swiped the flat of his tongue back and forth then teased it with the curled tip of his tongue. Then, when she was writhing and shaking, he sucked her clitoris between his teeth, massaging it with his tongue until she came, her cunt cinching tight around his fingers. Her voice rang out through her cavernous chambers, the words a language he couldn’t understand—Dothraki or Valyrian, or some combination of both.

As her body relaxed into the bed, Jon traced her slick folds with his tongue, licking her clean and still leaving her wet and ready for him. Her fingers pulled at his hair, and he lifted his head, branding a trail of wet kisses up her stomach; the tight muscles quivered with each press of his lips, each brush of his beard. When he reached her breast bone, he left his lips there for a moment, her heart fluttering erratically just below skin and bone.

He closed his eyes, content to stay right there, but she tugged on his hair again, bringing his face to hers. She gazed up at him as he hovered above her. His throat tightened. How could her heart be beneath her ribs, when it was right there in her eyes?

_Don’t look at me like that,_ he wanted to tell her. _I don’t deserve it._ He was wicked and contemptible. A dishonorable man, he would taint her with what was left of his black heart.

She inhaled shakily, then pushed up on her elbows, lifting her mouth to his and stopping the spiraling of his thoughts. She kissed him, her tongue sliding along his as she moaned, not shy about enjoying her taste on his tongue. He breathed deeply through his nose then kissed her roughly in turn, like a starved man, curling his hand behind her head.

She pulled him down on top of her but bucked upward, using her weight to roll him onto his back. Disarmed, he could only watch as she straddled him, rising over him, just as she had when she’d mounted her dragon in battle. Reaching between her legs, she took his cock in hand, making him groan as she stroked his shaft, purely to torment him, he was sure. But then she notched his tip at her cunt and sank down on him, swiveling her hips to seat herself on his cock completely.

“Fuck,” he gasped, the tight, wet heat of her surrounding him as deliciously as a vice. His hips arched up, seeking more, but she leaned forward and braced her hands on his chest, fingers splayed wide, the tip of her thumb grazing his scar. Her hair spilled over her shoulders, burnished nearly gold by the glow of the hearth that warmed her room.

She was a vision—ethereal, unreal. He could almost convince himself this was only a dream. Except, when he reached out, his hands touched the solid, unyielding flesh of her thighs, gripping his waist tightly. She began to move, riding him slowly, hips rising and falling in sinuous, tortuous undulations, as persistent as the waves on the sea. She held his gaze, her rose-petal lips parted slightly with her breathy moans. He couldn’t look away, an invisible thread tightening between them.

Daenerys broke first; leaning forward so her hair grazed his chest like a curtain of moonlight, she gasped at the angle change and tipped her head back, grinding and rocking on top of him. “ _Jon_ ,” she panted, saying it for the first time since they’d begun this ill-advised tryst.

The sound of his name on her tongue, thick with pleasure, made him absolutely feral. With an animal snarl, he sat up and twisted her underneath him. His cock briefly slipped out of her, and she sucked in a breath at the loss. Hooking his elbow under her knee, he hiked it up to her chest and shoved back into her. Her cry was sharp and loud, making his blood run even hotter. Grappling at his back, Daenerys wrapped her other leg around his waist, and he pushed her leg onto his shoulder so he could thrust into her deeper.

Then he was fucking her, hard and fast, taking her like she was his, and he was hers, and nothing mattered beyond this room, nothing but his cock inside her, stroking in and out with every punch of his hips forward. Hunched over her, he rested his forehead against hers, grunting and gasping. She was singing so loudly, so sweetly for him—and then she was coming so quickly, so wetly. Her cunt tightened around his cock, and just as easy as that, he was coming, too. He threw his head back, hands fisting the covers under her. “ _Fuck,_ ” he roared, still thrusting as he spilled inside her, pumping her cunt full of his seed.

Head spinning, he let her leg slip from his shoulder before collapsing on top of her. He rolled off her onto his side so she didn’t have to bear his full weight, but she didn’t let him go far, curling up on her side to face him. She rested her hand on his cheek, her own flushed and lovely, and she leaned in to press her mouth to his, desperation edging her kiss. Then she laid her head down on the pillow beside his, their faces pressed together, sharing the same breaths.

Still heady and boneless from his release, he found words escaped him for the time being. Truthfully, he was afraid to say anything, lest he break the spell of the moment. Instead, he trailed his shaking fingers along the curve of her shoulder, down her arm to her elbow and back again, his touch as light as a feather.

The night wore on. They didn’t sleep, just lay there, face to face, memorizing every detail: every eyelash flutter, every forehead crease, every freckle and scar. She traced the faded line over his eye, stroking her thumb across his brow. The fire in the hearth burned low, but the darkness gradually lightened with the brush of dawn beyond her windows.

Finally, Daenerys spoke. “Jon.” Just a whisper, soft and searching. His hand curled around her shoulder, and he swallowed thickly. _You should send me away,_ he thought, knowing he was too weak to go on his own. The thought sent a bolt of fear through him all the same, and he found himself leaning in to her to kiss her, to delay the inevitable.

Hesitating, Daenerys pulled away before his lips could touch hers and covered his eyes with her hand. Confused, he went still.

“Wait,” she said softly. “I need to say something to you, but I can’t do it with you looking at me. Not yet.”

Jon just breathed, blinking against the pitch-black of her small hand. He heard her inhale to brace herself. Not being able to see, everything sounded louder, including the beat of his heart.

“Marry me,” she said. He stiffened, and she continued in a rush, “I know you have someone waiting for you back in Winterfell, but I think we would be good together. Not just like this...but for the kingdom. For our people, all of them. And it can just be a political arrangement, if that’s what you wish.” Her voice shook, barely, but it was enough for him to hear the quiver and hitch. “You can...you can keep her, if—well, I’m not some ignorant maiden. I know many men take lovers. Even kings. Especially kings.”

It took him a moment to find the words. “And queens?” His voice came out hoarse and gravelly, the first word he’d spoken in hours. “What do queens do?”

He couldn’t see her, but he felt a chill settle over both of them. Finally, she dropped her hand. The open tenderness in her face, put there by their lovemaking, was gone, her expression closed off. Pulling away from him, she sat up and turned her back to him as she perched on the edge of the bed.

“Queens endure it. That’s what’s expected of them, isn’t it? And provide heirs, of course. Except—” He saw a tremor go through her, her naked back curving slightly before she immediately straightened. “Well. I can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

He blinked at her back, not comprehending. “What does that mean?” he asked, sitting up with her.

“It means I can’t have children.” She stood from the bed, and he watched wide-eyed as she grabbed her robe from the floor, quickly slipping it on. When she turned to him again, she crossed her arms over her chest, her face hard. “A maegi cursed me and my womb, and now I’m a queen who can’t give you or anyone heirs.”

_Heirs_. Children, she was talking about _children._ Gods—he hadn’t even been thinking about—he’d spilled inside her without any bloody thought—

Jon shook his head, rubbing his forehead. Seven hells. She was talking about marriage and heirs and paramours like it was all a foregone conclusion. He felt a slick slide of nausea in his stomach and swung his legs over the side of the bed, gripping the edge to try to ground himself.

“Daenerys,” he breathed out. He couldn’t look at her. “I’m a bastard. Being king doesn’t change that.” _Clearly_ , he thought derisively. He was here, after all. Not even a crown could change his base nature.

“And what of it? My last lover was a sellsword. My husband, a Dothraki warlord. You think it matters to me if you’re not some trueborn lord? I’m well aware of what you are, Jon. It doesn’t change my proposition. Or—” she faltered, and he lifted his eyes to her. She swallowed. “Or how I feel. About you.”

His chest tightened. It was an effort to breathe. “I’m poison, Daenerys,” he rasped. “I’m rotten to my core. I thought my death had changed me, made me this black husk of a thing—but the truth is, I’ve always been this way; this body just hid the rot inside.”

She looked taken aback. “Why do you think that about yourself?”

Agitated, he blew out a breath. “Because I’m fucking baseborn.”

Blinking, she raised her eyebrows. “So you’re guilty of your father’s sins? You think we’re nothing more than the actions of our forebears? If that were true, then that means I’m just the Mad King’s daughter. Is that what you think of me?”

He glanced at her sharply. “Of course not. You’re nothing like that,” he said fiercely, reflexively. “You’re—you’re _good_ and _kind_. You’re fucking extraordinary. You’re better than the rest of us, all those shit lords and ladies who care nothing but filling their coffers off the broken backs of the smallfolk.”

She stared at him, eyes softer now, imploring. “How can you not see how extraordinary you are, too?”

Jon scoffed, his lip curling. “I’m not.”

“You are! Your very existence—”

He raised his voice to talk over her. “ _I’m not_! I’m everything they’ve ever said I was! I’m treacherous and lustful and dishonorable, and everything I touch turns to shit! How do you not understand? I don’t deserve you, and you shouldn’t want me, especially not after this.”

In the wake of his outburst, a chilly silence fell between them. When he finally found the courage to look at her again, her jaw was set in a hard line. “I will not be your pillory to flog yourself on, Jon,” she told him coldly. “You came to me. That was a choice _you_ made. Not your father, not your blood. _You_.”

Anguished, he dropped his head into his hands. He had no defense for himself or his actions. Daenerys took a deep breath. “People like us make hard choices every day,” she said, more quietly now. “We hurt people. We can’t avoid it, no matter how hard we might try.” He pushed his thumbs into his eyes as she continued, “You made your choice. And now you have to make another.”

He could feel a pressure building behind his eyes. She was right; he knew she was. It was a decision that was a long time coming, truthfully. After a moment, he dragged his hands down his face before limply dropping them in his lap. “I’ve hurt her so many times already,” he rasped. “Over and over. It’s all I seem to do.”

“Do you love her?” she asked bluntly, and he lifted his head to meet her gaze. She returned it defiantly, but her face was ashen, apprehension deep in the creases around her eyes.

“I did,” he answered truthfully. “I was a man of the Night’s Watch, and I infiltrated the free folk. I used her to get closer. Along the way, I fell in love with her. I betrayed my vows for her. But in the end, I still betrayed her. And she couldn’t forgive me for that. I didn’t blame her. We were always on opposite sides, until we weren’t. When the red priestess brought me back, things changed. Ygritte—”

He stopped abruptly when Daenerys flinched, almost imperceptibly, realizing that was the first time he’d said the name out loud. It hung between them, as heavy as a lead ball.

After a moment, she gave a nod of her head, and he continued, gently, “She wouldn’t leave my side. I guess grief can put things into perspective. And at first, I was grateful. Happy, maybe, though it was hard to feel anything good at that time. But she was there, and it was nice to have someone, someone loyal, someone to hold me every time I awoke in the middle of the night, sure I was feeling the slide of the sword into my heart all over again.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But that’s not love, is it? That’s just gratitude. I owed her, because I’d betrayed her, and because she stuck with me, anyway.” Disgusted, he shook his head. “At some point along the way, I realized my feelings had changed. Or maybe that man who loved her just never came back from the dead.”

He fell quiet, lost in his circling thoughts. After a moment, Daenerys moved, coming to sit beside him on the bed. He was still naked, his spent cock soft between his legs, but for once he felt no shame, no self-consciousness. She touched his arm.

“You’re not doing her any favors,” she said softly. “Being with her, not because you love her, but out of some sense of obligation—I can’t imagine anyone wants to be loved in that way. A love built on pity or duty is enough to blacken anyone’s heart. And it’ll twist you both up inside until in the end all that’s left between you is hate and resentment.”

He knew she was right. “And us?” he asked gruffly, looking to her. “What you propose, wouldn’t that just be duty, too?”

She pulled her hand back to clutch at her robe, tightening it around her breasts. “I suppose that’s up to you.”

“And _you_ ,” he asserted. “A political marriage, for the good of the people, to unite the kingdoms. That’s what you’re suggesting.”

She averted her eyes. “I can’t do my...queenly duty in any other way. I accepted this a long time ago. But I understand if that might change things for you. What you think of me.”

Jon shook his head, incredulous. “ _What I think of you_? I already told you what I think. It changes nothing.” She bit down on her lip, still not looking at him. He grabbed her chin, turning her face to his. “Look at me, damn you. I laid it all out there for you, all the ugly, broken things inside me. If I can do that, the least you can do is be honest with me.”

Her temper flared, anger flashing through her violet eyes. “I _am_ being honest with you.”

“No, you’re not,” he said harshly. “You want to marry me because it’s what a queen does? Because you want to fuck me? Why? Tell me,” he demanded. She tried to jerk her face away, but he refused, releasing her chin to palm the back of her head, pressing his forehead to hers so she couldn’t turn away again. “ _Why me_?”

“Because I’m a fool who loves you,” she snapped, angrily, tearfully, and he kissed her, savoring the taste of her avowal on his tongue. She didn’t resist, giving herself to the kiss, to him, demanding and indignant, biting roughly at his lips until he hissed, fisting her hair to yank her mouth away, just slightly. She gasped for air as he kissed down her jaw and neck, nuzzling his mouth against her fluttering pulse.

He hid his face there, breathing hard, and his grip on her hair loosened. He was shaking, he realized. He was scared, in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. Scared...and yet, exhilarated. Alive. Aware of every breath in his lungs filling his chest, every beat of his heart pushing blood through his veins. And for the first time in a long time, the ache in his heart wasn’t one of sadness, but of sweetness. A promise made with hers.

Finally, he lifted his head. Her eyes were closed, but they drifted open when he smoothed his hand over her hair, pushing it back from her face.

“You’re right,” he said. “I made a choice. I made my choice in the Red Keep. I made my choice when you held out your hand to me, and I took it. I made my choice when I stayed. I made my choice, many times over. I chose you, Daenerys.”

Tears shone in her eyes, and she blinked against them rapidly. "Why?" she asked, her voice small.

He touched her cheek as he confessed, “Because I’m a bastard who loves you.”

* * *

**vii.**

While Tyrion and the rest of her advisers sailed to King’s Landing, Jon and Daenerys sailed with a small contingent of her army to White Harbor, where they would then march for Winterfell. As they sailed, her dragons never seemed far, though they would often disappear for hours at a time. Likely trying to stay warm, she told him. “They’ve never felt the cold before.”

Neither had she, he soon understood. She bundled herself in furs on the ship and then on the journey by horse, especially when they stopped to set up camp every night. Her cheeks and nose were always chapped pink, her violet eyes bright and glossy, her teeth never seeming to cease their chattering.

She was the loveliest sight he’d ever laid eyes on.

Even so, the closer they drew to Winterfell, the greater his dread grew, and the harder it was to go to her tent every night. The distance grew between them, even as they lay together on her pallet, naked and cocooned in furs, until she finally confronted him. “I won’t beg you,” she told him firmly, and he hated himself for making her feel this way.

“You don’t have to,” he promised before he kissed her, moving into her once again so they could both lose themselves, at least for a little while.

Jon had sent a raven to his sister from White Harbor, so when they finally arrived at Winterfell, Sansa received them readily—if a bit warily. She curtsied to her king. “It’s good to see you again, brother,” she said stiffly, then executed a grudging curtsy to Daenerys, ever courteous. “Welcome to our home, Your Grace.”

Everyone, from the Northmen to the free folk, had filled the courtyard to get a glimpse of the Dragon Queen and her dragons. Almost immediately, Ser Davos came forward to welcome them, with a stilted bow but an easy smile. Jon was happy to see him and rested his hand on his adviser’s shoulder in greeting. The dragonglass had arrived safely, all accounted for, Davos assured him; the blacksmith had already gotten to work on forging weapons from it all.

As Sansa led them toward the keep, the gathered crowd parted to make way. It was there, by the armory, Jon got a glimpse of wild red hair. Across the courtyard, they locked gazes, Ygritte’s blue eyes hard. He took a deep breath and nodded to her, before following after Sansa and Daenerys into the Great Keep.

* * *

As the Lady of Winterfell, Sansa had planned a feast in honor of Jon’s return and Daenerys’ visit. They gathered in the Great Hall, as much as could fit, to eat and drink. The queen sat at the head table with Jon and Sansa, receiving wellwishers. The Northmen were more recalcitrant, cutting her hostile glances from their seats, naturally skeptical of a Targaryen queen, but the free folk were more friendly and gregarious, curious about the three dragons they’d glimpsed earlier after the queen’s arrival, flying over the keep to reassure their mother they were never far.

At one point, Daenerys asked after Ghost. Jon could sense him nearby. “He doesn’t like a crowd. He’s probably in the stables.” It was where he liked to sleep while Jon was away, if he wasn’t running through the woods on a days-long hunt. “I can take you to him later, if you’d like.”

She smiled, a touch of shyness to the curve of her mouth. “Yes, I would like that.”

Sansa was courteously aloof for most of the feast, but eventually the wine loosened her tongue. “So it’s true,” she said, staring at Daenerys. “That Cersei is dead?”

“Yes,” Daenerys replied. “I doubt I would be here if she weren’t.”

Something flickered in his sister’s eyes. “Then I suppose I should thank you. You did us all a favor.”

“I don’t require your thanks, my lady,” Daenerys returned, looking to Jon. “If what Jon says about the Others is true, then our work is not done yet.”

“Aye, it’s true.” A brash voice carried over the din, which seemed to quiet at the interruption. Jon sucked in a breath as Ygritte pushed her way through the gathered guests. During the feast, she’d lingered at the far end of the Great Hall all evening; Jon had not spoken to her yet, as there’d been no time since his arrival to go to her, to take her aside somewhere and tell her everything she deserved to know.

She glowered at Daenerys now. “The Others are real, and they’ve been killing my people for years now, while all you fancy lords and ladies sat pretty and safe in your castles, south of that bloody Wall you put up to keep us out.”

“Ygritte,” Jon started, and he felt Daenerys tense beside him as she stared at the woman before them. He wasn’t sure what to do, aware of all the eyes fixed on them with keen interest.

After a moment, Daenerys replied, her voice even, “You’re mistaken, my lady.”

“I’m no lady,” Ygritte interrupted, but Daenerys was not deterred.

“I was in Essos until only recently. I’d no idea about the Others, and I certainly was not sitting pretty in some castle all this time.”

Ygritte scoffed. “No? Then where was Jon all this time, if not holed up in some castle with _you_?”

Abruptly, Jon stood and moved around the table. “Let’s go somewhere to talk,” he urged her quietly. When he took her arm to lead her away, she jerked away, glaring at him. Then she turned and stalked out of the Great Hall, expecting him to follow. Gritting his teeth, Jon trailed after her, curious eyes following them. He could hear the whispers start: _Of course, the king can’t control his wildling whore._

They didn’t get far beyond the doors before she whirled on him, fire in her eyes. “It’s been months!” she hissed, accusing. “ _Months_ , and you couldn’t even come to me?”

“I’m sorry,” he told her. “There’s been no time—”

“No time for me, you mean. You’ve had plenty of time for _her_.”

He clenched his jaw. “She’s the queen. A guest in our home.”

“Is she _your_ queen?” Ygritte demanded, and he swallowed.

“I have not bent the knee to her,” he said, knowing it wasn’t the full truth, but the words stuck in his throat.

The doors to the Great Hall opened behind them, and Ygritte’s eyes flashed over his shoulder. Jon turned to see Daenerys step out, tentative in her uncertainty. His heart lurched in his throat, and he felt the danger descend on them.

She shut the doors firmly before approaching them, stopping short. “Forgive me,” she said. “For interrupting.”

“This doesn’t concern you,” Ygritte said nastily, a threat in her words. Daenerys bit down on her lip, clasping her hands before her.

“I think it does,” she said gently. Jon closed his eyes, blowing out a weary breath, as he turned to Ygritte. She blinked, looking between them. As understanding dawned, her face twisted in betrayal.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?”

He flinched at the accusation, guilt settling in his stomach. “Ygritte,” he started but stopped, staring at her helplessly. He was a coward.

His silence was answer enough, however. Her face flushed red with anger. “You did. You fucked her, you _lying, buggering shit_!” she hollered. She slammed her hands against his chest to shove him, and he didn’t lift a hand to stop her as she struck his chest again. “You heartless _bastard_! You _bloody oathbreaker_!”

Daenerys stepped forward to intervene. “Ygritte—”

Her plea was halted when Ygritte spat in her face. “Don’t you dare say my name, you fucking cunt!” she yelled, lunging for her next. Quickly, Jon stepped between them, grabbing Ygritte by the waist to hold her off, but she threw a wild punch at his face, the blow glancing off his cheekbone. He winced, the hit hard enough to hurt, but he grabbed Ygritte again when she made another lunge for Daenerys.

“Ygritte, _stop_ ,” he commanded, pleaded. When she realized he’d moved to defend Daenerys, Ygritte’s face went slack with disbelief. For the moment, the fight left her completely. She stepped back from him.

“So that’s how it’s going to be now?” she demanded, the hurt palpable in her voice.

He held her wounded gaze. “It’s how it _has_ to be,” he told her.

At his declaration, her face paled, before two red spots appeared on her cheeks. “You’re marrying her, aren’t you?”

“Aye,” he said simply, quietly.

“Because she’s a queen, and you’re a king.”

_Because I love her_ , he thought, but he would spare her that pain, at least. Instead, he said nothing, not flinching from her gaze despite the recrimination there.

Angry tears filled her eyes, and she sneered at him. “I told you, didn’t I? I warned you this would happen. Because it’s what you bloody kneelers always do.”

With that, she spun on her heel and fled. He did not call after her or follow. Once she disappeared from his sight, his shoulders slumped. “Jon?” Daenerys entreated, and he turned to her. He grimaced, wiping some spittle from her chin that she’d missed.

“I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugged listlessly. “It’s no less than I deserved. If I was in her position, I’m sure I would raze this keep to the ground,” she said.

Knowing Ygritte, it was also a distinct possibility. “I should have gone to her sooner. Spared us all the scene.”

“It wouldn’t have made it hurt any less,” she said. She moved closer and touched his cheek where Ygritte had struck him, making him wince slightly. “Are you all right?”

No, but it was done with now. And he would live with the guilt because it was his penance to bear. “It’s been a long journey. I could use some sleep.”

She nodded, her expression shifting. “Of course,” she said primly, dropping her hand. “I will tell your sister you have retired for the night.”

When she made to leave, he grabbed her hand and clung to it. “I meant for you to join me,” he said softly.

She gave him a small smile and squeezed his hand in return.

* * *

They were awoken at dawn by guards banging on his chamber doors. Daenerys had her own room set up for her visit, but they’d not been able to part after she’d joined him in his chambers following the row at supper, so she’d spent the night in his bed. Jon pulled on his trousers to answer the door while she ducked behind a folded screen for privacy.

“What is it?” he demanded, groggy but alert, his mind already racing with any number of reasons for the unexpected disturbance: Ygritte, the dead, the Northmen brawling with the Dothraki and Unsullied—

The guards look perturbed. “It’s—there’s someone at the gate, Your Grace. He says he’s your brother. Bran Stark.”

Stunned, Jon quickly finished dressing and let Daenerys know where he was going before leaving his chambers. In the courtyard, there was a small crowd gathered. Sansa was already there, standing beside a person seated in a cart, another bedraggled woman at their side. At a closer look at the man in the cart, Jon’s heart nearly stopped; the face of his younger brother peered at him through this man’s face. It was indeed Bran Stark, all grown up.

“Brother,” Jon laughed joyfully, leaning down to hug him. Bran did not return the hug, only peered up at him with eerily impassive eyes. Jon cupped his face, the beginnings of a beard scraping against his fingers. “Where have you been?”

“Jon,” Bran said, and his eyes turned away then, looking at something over his shoulder. Jon glanced behind him to see Daenerys coming toward them, having put on her gown and cloak. “Daenerys,” Bran greeted when she reached them.

Surprised, Jon looked back to Bran. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. And no.” Bran’s gaze drifted between them knowingly, and Jon felt a strange sense of foreboding settle over him. “There is something I must tell you both.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, Jon, you're marrying your aunt, no takesie-backsies!
> 
> Don't worry; I imagine this Jon would not have the kind of existential crisis about fucking his aunt that s8!Jon did. They'll be just fine here ;)


End file.
